I've Had A Chance To Be Insane
by ChaosChild92
Summary: "It's like there's a Dementor. Like there's a Dementor in my head. Or in my heart. Or something. And it keeps making more sadness whenever I think I can cope." This is SLASH. If you don't like it feel free to keep moving.
1. waking up dead inside of my head

**Title: **I've Had A Chance To Be Insane  
**Author: **Chaos  
**Beta: **None, tragically.  
**Pairings**: Lee/George, I guess implied Fred/George. Maybe. If you squint and turn your head to the side.  
**Warnings: **Angst, alcohol consumption, incest if you're looking for it.  
**Ratings: **M probably.  
**Spoiler Warnings: **Deaths during Deathly Hallows and a particular injury sustained by George.  
**Disclaimer****: **Not mine. Not even remotely. And the title/cut lyrics come from a Red Hot Chili Peppers song, so they're not mine either.

**Summary:** "It's like there's a Dementor. Like there's a Dementor in my head. Or in my heart. Or something. And it keeps making more sadness whenever I think I can cope.

**Author's Note: **Um. Not beta'ed. If anyone is willing to look over it for me I would be indebted to you.

This was originally begun (ages and ages ago) for this prompt over at the now (sadly) defunct kink meme and I've only just found the energy and time to finish it. I just thought I'd share for the sake of it.

* * *

The room is quiet. Quiet and cold. George lies on his stomach on the floor and watches the dust move.

This was going to be their workroom.

That'd been the plan when they first opened the shop. But somehow they never got around to moving everything down from their apartment. There were too many brilliant ideas that needed to be written down, and sometimes explored, late at night. And now it'll never happen.

He sighs, watching the dust motes eddy away from his breath. There are footprints here. Some of them are his, some are Fred's. He has to repress the urge to preserve those ones with little magical bubbles. The idea makes him smile a little. Fred would have made it into a joke. Somehow.

Footsteps intrude on his musings and he turns his head, propping it on his chin in order to watch the door. This affords him a really excellent view of the shoes the visitor is wearing. Which is interesting, but not necessarily informative or helpful. He rolls over and finds himself looking up into a dark face wearing a sympathetic expression.

"I brought whiskey." Lee says, holding the bottle in view. George smiles and although it feels pale and wan at least it doesn't feel forced.

It takes several hours and more than a little whiskey in his system to make George feel even slightly better, though he's not entirely sure what's improved. He certainly isn't ready to go out there and face the world. He doesn't think he's even ready to go out there and face the empty shop.

Instead he leans his head against Lee's shoulder and breaks the silence into which they have fallen.

"I'm really gonna miss him." Lee's arm passes somewhat awkwardly over his head and settles around his shoulders. George leans into it, whole body going limp as he relaxes.

"I know mate." Lee says, pulling him close against his side in a one armed embrace as the other arm brings up the nearly empty bottle of fire whiskey. "I know." He presses the bottles neck against George's lower lip and, eyes focussed on his friend, the surviving Weasley twin lets his mouth fall open, tongue passing over his lips then, when he's savoured the traces of flavour, stretching further and tentatively tracing the whiskey flavoured glass.

His eyes flicker shut as Lee tips the bottle and the last of the whiskey flows across his tongue and a little of it burns down his throat.

Finally, Lee pulls the bottle away and there's a soft sound as he sets it aside. Gentle hands come up to cup his face and a wand-calloused thumb traces his left cheek and up to the scar tissue where his ear was torn away. He opens his eyes to find Lee staring back at him as he slowly leans forward.

George sits still, blinking as Lee moves towards him. Lee's lips are soft and as he licks into George's slack mouth, stealing the last drops of whiskey, he's finally stirred from his stupor.

He doesn't fight as Lee pulls him forward, half crawling, half falling into the space between Lee's spread thighs. He hooks one leg awkwardly over Lee's, curling it around behind his back while his other leg remains trapped underneath his body. The position is uncomfortable, but he can't be bothered to move.

He's not sure if it's the grief or the whiskey paralysing his system but only Lee's kisses seem real. Like they're a burning lantern holding the chilly fog at bay. Lee's lips move from his own, tracing from the very corner of his mouth up the tracks that the salty tears took until he can kiss his eyelids. First one, then the other, then back down again. Moving past his lips this time and across his jaw, where the stubble is growing because he's had too much time and not enough energy to deal with it.

As Lee's lips leave his face and start working down his neck, caressing the skin just below his jaw, George swallows and feels compelled to muse aloud.

"It's like there's a Dementor." He breathes, cutting himself off with a gasp as Lee reaches the base of his neck and slips strong fingers under the first button of his shirt.

"Yeah?" Lee's voice is husky in the air that suddenly seems too quiet. Too quiet where before it was always bustling with business and laughter. Even when it was completely empty. But Lee's voice is like the whiskey and the kisses, driving back the silence and drawing him towards the light. George swallows and goes on as Lees pushes the first button loose and turns his attentions to George's collarbone, pressing tiny kisses down one side then back up the other.

"Like there's a Dementor in my head." He reiterates, head falling back as Lee's forearm presses up his spine, long fingers sliding into his hair and supporting his head, suddenly too heavy to imagine. "Or in my heart. Or something." Lee's free hand slips down the open face of his shirt to the next button, fingertips gently brushing hair and skin. It comes loose as George searches for the right words to describe what he's feeling and Lee's fingers slide on.

"And it keeps making more sadness, whenever I think I can cope…" He breaks off with a sigh as Lee's hand comes to rest over his heart and, for a moment they're both utterly still, intertwined on the dusty floor, just breathing in the memories of the past that linger here as George tries to express his grief in tangible terms.

Finally he takes a deep, shuddering breath and continues. Voicing the thoughts that he hasn't even really allowed to form in his own mind with a shaking whisper.

"It keeps taking away all the good things until I can't remember anything about him." He can feel tears welling up in his eyes again as Lee inexorably slides his shirt back from his shoulders. "Why can't I remember anything about him?"

The words come out mangled by a sob, but Lee seems to understand that this is the crux of the issue. He pulls back, expression deadly serious as the hand that had moved down to trace the Quidditch hardened muscles on George's chest and stomach once again comes up to cup his cheek.

"Because it hurts right now." He says, voice resonating deeply in George's mind. "Too much to even think about." He pauses, moving his other hand around so that he's holding George's face and he can wipe the tears away, the water soaking into his thumbs and palms. "But it won't always hurt." His voice is a promise. "And you'll remember in time." George sighs, eyes closing in sync with the shaky exhale. He can feel his eyelashes beating against Lee's fingers and he holds still as that calloused skin traces the last drops away.

"What if I don't?" He asks. There's a slight rustle and then Lee's forehead is pressed to his and he opens his eyes to find Lee watching him intently across the tiny intervening space, their eyelashes tangling together as they blink in tandem.

"You won't." Lee says. "I won't let you."


	2. will never, never do there is no med

A seven years later, coda type thing.  


* * *

The room is cold, like it always is. Every year.

George pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders and paces impatiently back and forth across the empty floor, his feet stirring up the dust that's been left back here.

He can hear the bustle out the front. Customers and employees. All the movement and the footsteps and the occasional ringing of the bell. He has at least an hour before anyone comes looking for him.

Lee arrives a little later than last year.

George hears the back door open but he doesn't leave the abandoned room to check who it is. Only two people have the key to that door. Well, technically three. But he doesn't know if it counts when the key's just lying in a bedroom that hasn't been used in seven years.

Lee pauses in the doorway, looking around a little awkwardly before he steps through, his feet creating their own little eddies of dust.

George watches those currents as they fly up into the air and settle back down. Like the memories. And that's really what today is all about. Today and this room and him and Lee. Stirring up old memories from amongst the dust. Pulling back the bandages to check on the wound.

Lee moves rapidly and George finds himself pinned to a wall with Lee's mouth on his and a hard knee nudging his thighs apart.

It's not careful. Not soft at all. Nothing like it was once. It's evolved into something else, over the years.

Now Lee's hands are frantic, almost bruising as he tears at George's cloak and peels off his robes. Fingers digging into shoulders and arms and chests.

They're all teeth and frantic movement and harsh, panting breath.

And George can still hear the sounds of the shop as he clings to Lee (like he's fighting not to tumble into the abyss below) but the movement seems somehow far away, pushed back by this strangely intimate moment of stolen time. A moment that is all about remembrance and pain.

And there are tears and shuddering sobs in between the harsh grunts and heady gasps. But there's comfort too, because this time is about healing as well as pain.

It's about knowing that there's somebody else, anybody else, who has suffered. Knowing that they're both still real in the face of death. And the love and lust and fear is all mixed in there somewhere too.

Afterwards they go out to find a pub where they can get really drunk.

A different pub every year and it's usually a muggle one. Somewhere no one knows them. Where no one wants to engage them in conversation and, more importantly, where no one is celebrating. Because that's not what they need.

Because while today might mark a victory it's also a day of death. So as they touch their glasses together in some almost empty tavern and whisper-

"To those who died."

they aren't celebrating. They're mourning.


End file.
